


A new John Watson

by TeddyTR



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-26
Updated: 2011-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:58:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeddyTR/pseuds/TeddyTR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back after three years to find a not his John Watson living in 221B. This John Watson thinks he's a vision. This John Watson is skinny and angry. So how can they manage? Mostly a study of emotions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A new John Watson

Sherlock felt the weight of the world jumping off his shoulders as he finally got to lie down on his sofa. It was so natural, yet so extraordinary after three years of random hotel beds. He closed his eyes and sighed. _I’m home._

 

He never considered buildings to hold an importance. They were just places where he kept his stuff. 221B, on the other hand, was different. _Became_ different. After John. _John._ John made it into his home. John _was_ his home. But he abandoned him. For three horrendously long years. It was for his sake, obviously (nothing else would make Sherlock leave), but still…

 

John took his return much better than he expected. Sherlock imagined he would start shouting and throwing things at him, ordering him to get out and never come back. He thought it would be fine. Understandable. But John didn’t yell (God, Sherlock wished, he would!). Didn’t do anything, to be precise. At first, he wasn’t even surprised. Sherlock wondered if the other man figured out his plan, but after ten minutes blood ran out from John’s face and he almost fainted. Sherlock rushed beside him, daring to touch ( _touch John!_ ) and help him to the sofa. It turned out that John thought he was a vision, as he saw Sherlock quite often. _Hallucinating_ him, obviously. Worry settled in Sherlock’s brain. John looked so exhausted, black bags under his eyes, he lost weight (at least ten kilos) and was hallucinating. Just what happened in the last three years? _I died_ he thought. _Me too_ said John’s sad eyes.

 

When things settled a bit, he explained everything. John listened quietly. Then, he stood and asked Sherlock if he wanted a tea. He did. At the end of the day, it was almost, a _lmost_ , like three years ago, with Sherlock lying on the sofa and John sitting in his armchair, reading a book. But something seemed out of order. Sherlock frowned as he realized what it was.

 

“John?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You’re up.”

 

John looked up at him slightly surprised.  “Yes.”

 

This wasn’t right. It was late. Sherlock never slept much, but John always excused himself around eleven o’clock. He was an early bird, due to the army training, so it was logical. Not this time, though. It was two thirty and John didn’t seem to even consider sleeping yet.

 

“You’re not working tomorrow?” Silly question, John got up early anyway.

 

“I am.”

 

“But then, erm…” _What? You’re really sending a grown up man to bed?_ Sherlock scolded himself.

 

“I don’t sleep that much these days.” John explained, not looking up from his book. His voice was way too still. It tried too hard not to catch Sherlock’s attention. It did, of course. His brain was several steps ahead already.

 

“Afghanistan or me?”

 

John looked up again, with wide eyes. “What?”

 

“Your nightmares. They’re worsened. That’s why you restrained sleeping. So, Afghanistan or me?”

 

John put down the book and stared at him for long seconds. With a sigh, he decided there was no use in lying.

 

“Both. Sometimes mixing. But usually it is… it w _as_ only the silence.” He said, not meeting Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock sat up.

 

“I’m-“

 

“Sorry, I know.” John’s voice had an edge. Not that sharp, but enough to cut into Sherlock’s heart. The pain must have reached his face, because John’s expression softened immediately.

 

“Look, I understand, okay? Just… it’s different now. Things have changed. _I have_ changed.”

 

“I can see that. Will you tell me?”

 

“What?”

 

“Everything. Everything that happened while I was gone.”

 

A very disturbing expression ran through John’s features. _Memories,_ Sherlock realized with a heavy heart.

 

“Maybe. But not now,” John said quietly.

 

“Of course.”

 

There was an awkward silence, and this too was novel. Nothing was awkward with John. Sherlock even adored the quiet afternoons, when they did nothing but sat in their armchairs and read. Now the air was thick with unsaid words and an alien, sad atmosphere that wasn’t there before.

 

“I think I’ll go to sleep,” Sherlock said.

 

“Okay.” John turned back to his book, clearly not ready to go to bed yet.

 

“Good night.”

 

“Good night.”

 

Sherlock hardly slept that night. He frowned at his clock when he heard the other man’s rattle outside at four. John generally woke up at six thirty, which gave him two and a half hours of rest. _Definitely not enough,_ Sherlock’s mind stated out.   _He will sleep tonight. I will_ make _him if I have to._ With the determination circulating in his head, Sherlock swayed into a light nap.

 

***

John kept staring into his book, not reading a word from it. Truth to be told, he didn’t manage to turn the page that night. With Sherlock on the sofa. Again. John had a hard time making himself believe, that it’s not the same, old, cruel vision who came by from time to time. He was extremely good on this occasion, had a physical body and all. John wondered if he’s going mad. _Or Sherlock’s really back,_ his mind argued. Either way, reading was out of the question. Even after Sherlock (or his very convincing replica) excused himself. Around four, he gave up trying.

 

 In the last three years John reconsidered his sleeping habits. Well, nightmares reconsidered it for him. John Watson was not the type who got scared easily. He wasn’t scared to lay his head down with the thought that he might go back to Afghanistan while doing so. It was inconvenient, yes, disturbing, even, but not enough to change him. After Sherlock’s… after he was gone, John Watson had the opportunity to taste his own limits. He soon realized he _couldn’t_ do it. _Couldn’t_ go to bed with the certain knowledge that he would watch Sherlock die again and again. In the pool, on the street, on the cliff, in Afghanistan, _everywhere._ Knowing he would always be there, unable to save him.

 

And when he woke, his sobs and screams echoed in the thick silence of the flat. The flat, which was the first one for John to love. He hated them. Hated his parents’ empty home, hated Harry’s filthy place, hated the bloodstained tents, and most of all, he hated his own small, miserable hole. He never thought 221B would be any different. Well, it was. _Very_ different. That’s why he couldn’t bring himself to move out even after… Mycroft was kind enough to help him out, so he didn’t have to worry about finances. The whole place had Sherlock’s presence floating in it, no matter how much time had passed. It was painful, yet comforting and John knew this was definitely not healthy for him, but he couldn’t care less. As long as he could catch a lingering scent, could see the familiar belongings. He felt he would simply disappear without them. Later, looking back, John admitted to himself, he was, indeed, on the edge of madness.

 

But _he_ came back. Unbelievable, yet he did. Refusing to leave 221B turned out to be a good idea in the end. Not if John could expect something like this to happen. Sherlock did crazy things, of course, but leaving him behind? John understood his reasons, he was moved by the worry Sherlock felt towards his well-being. But he was worried too. God only knows what kind of dangerous situations Sherlock had got himself into. He should have been there. Protecting him. As always. He had to admit, though, that Sherlock had a point. He wouldn’t even consider sacrificing himself if it’s necessary. Obviously, Sherlock wanted to prevent that.

 

And he did come back. As soon as he could. _Too late anyway,_ John thought while brushing his teeth. He lay down feeling strangely _not_ alone. There was someone in the next room. _Sherlock._ He was there, like time had been re-wound and everything was normal again. _Everything except me,_ He thought sourly before sinking into a light, dreamless sleep.

 

***

Morning came, as always. John was up in a second, as always. He started his day with peeking into a certain detective’s room, as always. He waited for the wave of dull loneliness, as always. Except that that morning turned out to be different, as a picture of a sleeping and unquestionably alive Sherlock Holmes greeted him. _Now, that’s shocking,_ was all that John’s mind was able to put together. He slowly turned and went on with his morning routine, while processing the new information. When he reached the kitchen and put the kettle on, his hands hesitated. With a small frown, he took out another mug and placed it on the table, near to his. How many times he had to put away the cups and plates he took out for no one. How many times he stared at Sherlock’s untouched mug on the table for hours. _It will be different today._ He would come home, and the tea would disappear from the mug. Because Sherlock would be there to drink it. _He would be there._

 

With a faint smile, John put on his coat and went to work.

 

***

Sherlock woke up at eight and stared at his room for almost twenty minutes. _I’m back._ He waited for so long to see the familiar shapes, hear the usual rattle of Baker Street, to have John sleeping only meters away. _John._ He had already departed for work, obviously. But his existence was there, like shattered glass, flickering in each corner. A toothbrush, a pair of slippers, a jumper on the chair, the scent of his shampoo. Sherlock strolled through the flat slowly, taking in every little detail he missed so much. When he reached the kitchen, he halted in surprise. There was a mug and a plate on the table, with a kettle of tea, some bread and cheese, all placed neatly before his usual seat. Sherlock stared at the small gesture and felt like he was slapped in the face. Or in the heart. John loved to serve him breakfast. He always went like ‘the most important meal of all’ and literally stuffed it in Sherlock, with a pleasant smile. _Oh, how I missed this,_ he thought. As he sat down he noticed a small jar of raspberry jam near the bread. He let out a low chuckle. John _adored_ jam and never missed a chance to share this love with Sherlock. _Some things never change_ , Sherlock mused, his heart suddenly dropped at the thought. _But other things…_ John was not the same, he could see that and it wasn’t surprising. Only a glimpse of this new John and he could tell how close he’d been to breaking. _If I’d taken one more year…_ Sherlock shook his head, trying to throw out the disturbing pictures that came up. _I’m here now. Both of us can be_ whole _again…_

***

John was standing in front of the door for almost ten minutes. Then, he decided he’s being ridiculous, and with a firm hand he grabbed the knob. _He’ll be there. It was not a dream. He’s still there._ Choosing to ignore the slight trembling of his hands, John opened the door and stepped in. For a second, there was no sound in the flat. For a second, John thought his heart might stop beating and he would simply drop dead on the spot. But then he heard some rattle from the living room.

 

“John?” Called a low, clearly existent voice.

 

“Y-yeah.” John frowned at the weakness of his reply. Black curls turned up in the corridor.

 

“Welcome home,” Sherlock said with a strange look on his face. _This must be hard for him too,_ crossed John’s mind before he answered.

 

“Thanks.”

 

They stared at each other for long seconds. Sherlock cleared his throat. “How was your day?”

 

John regained consciousness too and continued to take off his coat. “Tiring. We have an epidemic.”

 

“Flu?”

 

“Yes.”He went into the kitchen, Sherlock followed him. “Tea?”

 

“Yes, thank you.” A small pause. “And thanks for the breakfast. I didn’t have one in such a long time.”

 

“It’s nothing.” John mumbled, he felt some red rushing through his cheeks so he quickly turned to the kettle. “You should have though. I always tell you that breakfast is the most important meal of all.” A chuckle came from behind.

 

“Yes, I know. But without your jam it’s worthless.”

 

 John shot back a smile.

 

“Anyway, I’m glad you’ve been eating properly. You’re not skinnier than you were before you… when I last saw you.”

 

“Yeah… I can’t say the same about you.” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly serious.

 

“Mm, guess I’ve lost some weight.” He tried to sound casual.

 

“ _Some_ weight, yes.”

 

John closed his eyes. He felt three years’ rage rising in him.

 

“You want to ask something, Sherlock?” He turned, the edge of his voice burning with unleashed anger.

 

“I’m just trying to figure out what happened, John.”

 

“Wanna know what happened? _You died_ , that’s what happened. And I fucking took it badly, you know.”

 

“John-“

 

“No, shut up. You _left_ me and I had to realize I don’t know how to live without you anymore. Yes, I stopped eating and yes, I didn’t sleep. I was fucking _drowning_ here, but I didn’t move out. I _couldn’t._ For more than a year I kept looking for you, because I couldn’t believe you’re dead. I thought I’ll be dead first, or we will die together, or get old together, anything but this. I was sent to _another_ therapist who told me I was going mad. Then, I started _seeing_ you, so yes, I might have grown a mental affliction too. Oh, and I was hospitalized several times. Mostly because of the massive lack of nutrition. Once because I broke my arm by punching the wall too hard. Anything else you wanna know?” Hot tears blurred John’s vision. _No, I won’t damn cry,_ he thought desperately.

 

“John.” Was all that escaped Sherlock’s mouth as he paced through the kitchen.

 

“Don’t fucking ‘John’ me you bastard.” He mumbled angrily, but didn’t lean away from the arms embracing him. He sobbed quietly into Sherlock’s unbelievably expensive shirt. Tension slipped out from him, taking all the rage with it. John felt empty, ready to fall apart, like he did many times before, but strong arms kept him together this time. God knows how long they had been standing there when Sherlock finally spoke.

 

“John.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“You left out something. I’ve noticed you became vulgar.”

 

John couldn’t help laughing. “Fuck you!”

 

“See?”

 

“Yeah, I missed these brilliant deductions.”

 

“I’ve got another one. It’s already dark outside.”

 

“Wow, that’s genius.”

 

“Let’s go to bed.”

 

“What? It’s only half past seven!”

 

“I think you have some arrears to make up, so it’s fine.”

 

“I don’t want to sleep.”

 

“You have to and you will.”

 

“How bossy. That sounded like Mycroft.”

 

“Bullying me won’t help. Come.” With this, Sherlock started to drag him upstairs and John couldn’t find it in him to resist.

 

***

“So, tell me again why you’re sleeping with me?”

 

“To cure your nightmare problem, obviously.”

 

“Right. And you squashing me on a single bed will help?”

 

“Sleeping together with another person proved to be the solution in 76.5% of the cases.”

 

“You’ve done research.”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Fine then, I guess.”

 

John knew it should be uncomfortable, but he felt so secure like this, that it was embarrassing. In the last three years, it usually took him at least an hour to fall asleep. This time, he started drifting almost immediately. Before sleep could settle in, a thought stuck in his mind.

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Promise me something.”

 

“Anything.”

 

“ _Never again_ leave me like this.” He felt the other man’s arms pulling him closer, if that was even possible.

 

“I promise.” Sherlock whispered.

 

“Good.” John mumbled. He got ready to sleep off the exhaustion and sadness of three years and wake up to a new John Watson.

 

 


End file.
